


Honey and Milk

by Springsie



Series: He'll Get There... Eventually [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Not Beta Read, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Sensory Overload, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, because it's what we all deserve, geralt has a praise kink okay, he just wants to be a good boy, hoo boy this is a soft one lads, jaskier gives geralt a massage, like blink and you miss it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25566589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Springsie/pseuds/Springsie
Summary: Geralt didn’t take his eyes off of him the entire night, the rest of his meal forgotten and cold. He watched the way Jaskier moved through the crowd, flashed charming smiles that made a few maidens swoon. But somehow those baby-blues always landed on the Geralt, gleaming with mirth, and it made his chest feel warm and tight, and it made his slow heart beat just a little bit faster. Geralt blamed it on the ale and set the chipped mug down, crossing his arms.Or Geralt begins to realize that he might actually havefeelingsfor Jaskier, and it's definitely not the alcohol's fault.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: He'll Get There... Eventually [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626955
Comments: 22
Kudos: 443





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeey. So this took forever and a half to post and for that I am so sorry, but life came down on me hard mode.
> 
> Anyway, I decided to break this one into two chapters because it started getting Long. The second chapter should be posted soon. I don't want to give a hard date, because I'm bad at keeping a schedule.
> 
> For those of you haven't yet, I recommend reading the first part of the series. You don't necessarily have to to understand what's going on, but it's gonna more or less and important part of the whole subplot that will be happening in the series.
> 
> Anyway, comments are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

The town was larger than Geralt normally liked, but even he had to admit that a proper bed and a hot bath would be nice after over a week on the road. With directions from the guard posted at the gate, he and Jaskier made their way through the bustling main street toward the inn and tavern, Roach in tow with her reins in Geralt’s hand. People had booths set up along the side of the road, peddling produce and butchered meats and trinkets and all other manner of goods. Geralt was fairly certain that one woman was trying to sell cheap charms and potions, and when Jaskier paused to have a look at her wares, Geralt hauled him off with a hand on the back of his neck, ignoring his protests. 

“No good comes from roadside charms and spells,” the witcher said in way of explanation when Jaskier crossed his arms and looked at him petulantly. 

It wasn’t long before the booths thinned out, giving way to finer shops selling fabric and books and other goods likely imported from the larger cities. There was even a proper apothecary--Geralt could smell the medicinal herbs over the street stink as they walked past the open door. Even though he doubted there would be work for a witcher in a town like this, it was still comforting to know there was a proper healer nearby. At the very least, he could restock some herbs he needed for his somewhat depleted potion supply. 

The inn came into view and Jaskier let out a quiet whistle. “Not going to be a cheap night, eh, Geralt?”

The witcher hummed in agreement. 

The building looked well-kept, keeping in line with the nice neighborhood it sat in. It was also easily the tallest building in the town, reaching up four stories--the upper floors even had glass panes in the windows. This was clearly a nice establishment unused to the likes of Geralt stepping through its doors. Jaskier, on the other hand, would be right at home, surrounded by a proper audience. 

Geralt’s purse ached at the thought of the cost, though. Having travelled mostly through small farming settlements and dense woodland, there had been little work that paid much more than a few coins.

As if reading his mind, Jaskier patted his shoulder and walked ahead of him, calling back, “I’m sure after a few songs I’ll have made enough for a hot meal, a room, and a bath. Place like this, there are bound to be plenty of people who want to toss a coin to my witcher.” Jaskier shot him a grin and a wink and pushed the tavern door open. 

Rolling his eyes, Geralt made his way more slowly. 

He hitched Roach to the post with a few other horses, patting her neck and removing his bags, swords and all, from her saddle.

“If Jaskier makes enough coin, I’ll have you stabled and brushed like you deserve,” he told her, and the mare snorted quietly and bumped his shoulder affectionately with her nose.

After he made sure Roach was secure, Geralt finally went into the tavern with a sigh of resignation. The sound of the crowd washed over him before anything else when he opened the door, a cacophonous wave of laughter and conversation. The next thing that hit him was the smell of beer and food, and his stomach growled. As he shouldered his way through the throng of people milling about, he took another deep breath. Other than inevitably spilled ale and the sweat of the crowd, there were none of the other scents Geralt usually associated with drink houses--namely piss and vomit. This place was actually _clean_.

The price tag in his head went up a few more coins and Geralt pressed his lips together in a hard line. 

He spotted Jaskier at the bar, leaning over the polished wood to speak to the barman. His body language was easy and relaxed, and Geralt could see his shoulders shaking with laughter. But the way the barman was looking at _his_ bard had him gritting his teeth.

“Jaskier,” he said as he approached, hand going to the small of Jaskier’s back.

“Geralt!” He turned his head to give a radiant smile and he leaned back into the touch. “Mikkel here has agreed to let me play tonight in exchange for a hot meal.” Jaskier turned his pretty blue eyes back to Mikkel. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind including my friend’s meal, would you?”

The barman looked none too pleased at Geralt’s appearance, but he looked back to Jaskier with a smile that was tight around the corners and said, “Of course not. I’ll have your meals sent to your table.”

Jaskier positively beamed and thanked him before he led Geralt to a small table tucked in a quiet corner. The witcher couldn’t help shooting the barman a quick glare--though it unfortunately landed on his back--then returned his attention to Jaskier. He looked completely in his element, surrounded by people and noise and the warm glow of the room. His eyes were lit up, looked bluer than the ocean, and his smile was breathtaking. Geralt looked away when they sat down and instead swept his gaze around the large room. 

The evening was young and it was surprising that there were so many people already in the tavern. Geralt supposed it came with the wealth this town obviously had; the folks laughing and socializing were all dressed well, the fabric mostly untouched by a hard day’s work. Being around this type made him uneasy, but a glance at Jaskier and he could tell he was putting together a list of songs that would bring in the most coin. His bard knew how to take advantage of a crowd, how to read them, and the way his eyes darted around the room, he was definitely plotting.

The two sat together in a comfortable silence until their meals arrived, each watching the people around them. Jaskier smiled cheerfully up at Mikkel, who had brought it upon himself to personally deliver their food.

“Thank you very much, my good sir,” Jaskier said, elbowing Geralt, who just grunted a quiet thanks, eyes hard as he stared at the barman until he left, clearly uncomfortable.

Good.

“You really ought to work on your manners, Geralt,” Jaskier said, not for the first time since they met. He brought a piece of hard crusted bread to his mouth. “It would really do wonders for your reputation,” he added, and then he bit into the bread with a pleased hum that was nearly drowned out by the bar noise.

Geralt scoffed and reached for his ale. “My reputation is fine the way it is,” he muttered. It appeared Jaskier hadn’t heard him as he began to eat, and that was just fine. 

Despite his hunger, Geralt only picked at his food, something Jaskier said earlier distracting him.

“Do you really think I’m your witcher?” he finally asked some minutes later from around the rim of his tankard.

"Do you really think you’re _not_ my witcher?” Jaskier countered with a smile.

 _I’m whatever you want me to be,_ Geralt thought, though he didn’t say it; he simply hummed and took a long drink from his ale.

Thoughts like that had been coming to him more and more often since their tryst in the woods. It was unnerving. Geralt had never once in his life belonged to anyone, but he was beginning to think that he unequivocally belonged to Jaskier. It made him frown into his beer.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier finished his dinner and reached for his lute case, giving Geralt a cheeky grin. “Time to earn us our room, then,” he said, bracing his hand on Geralt’s shoulder as he stood, his touch lingering longer than necessary once he was on his feet.

Geralt wanted to take hold of his wrist and keep him close, pull him into a long, drawn out kiss that left them both breathless. His fingers twitched minutely, but he remained still and just watched Jaskier walk away and set up his lute case for the performance. Each movement was deliberate, bordering on theatrical, and he looked absolutely at ease as he began to pluck at the strings, tuning a few of them until they were perfect to his ear; it also served the purpose of drawing attention to himself, many of the tavern’s patrons turning curious eyes in Jaskier’s direction. And without any preamble, he launched into his first song.

It took no time for Jaskier to have the room singing along--he was a household name, after all. Soon, the tavern was packed, word of his presence having spread, and he was so obviously living for this, joy clear on his beautiful face, forget-me-not eyes shining. 

“ _The fishmonger’s daughter--_ ” Jaskier sang out, and the crowd bah’d back at him to his delight.

Geralt didn’t take his eyes off of him the entire night, the rest of his meal forgotten and cold. He watched the way Jaskier moved through the crowd, flashed charming smiles that made a few maidens swoon. But somehow those baby-blues always landed on the Geralt, gleaming with mirth, and it made his chest feel warm and tight, and it made his slow heart beat just a little bit faster. Geralt blamed it on the ale and set the chipped mug down, crossing his arms.

It wasn’t long after that Jaskier returned, his coin purse jingling merrily. Geralt watched as he set his lute case carefully on the floor and braced both hands on the back of the chair across from him. His face was split with a wide smile, cheeks flushed, and his chestnut hair stuck a bit to his sweaty forehead. Geralt’s eyes dropped to Jaskier’s lips when his tongue darted out to wet them, unconsciously licking his own. 

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier said, a parody of their first meeting, and Geralt cracked a smile. “Come on, grab the bags. I already paid for the room and a bath. And I’ve had Roach stabled, so no need to worry about her.”

Without a word, Geralt stood and hauled the bags and his swords onto his shoulder then followed Jaskier through the crowd, staying close behind him. 

As they weaved their way toward the stairs, several people called out to Jaskier and he returned their greetings with waves and smiles. One young woman even clung to his arm, pulling him to a stop and looking up at him with doe eyes and an enticing smile. She stood on her toes to whisper something in Jaskier's ear, and Geralt watched in quiet amusement, though, when her hand began to wander over his bard's chest, he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Apologies, dear lady, but my companion and I have been on the road for over a week," Jaskier said, offering her a regretful smile, "and we're going to turn in for the night."

Watching the troubadour turn down what was no doubt a proposition sent a smug sort of heat spreading through Geralt's chest. Without a word, he gently touched Jaskier's elbow and he peeled himself from the woman's grasp so they could continue on their way. He didn't miss the sour expression on her face, and the smug feeling only grew.

It took longer than Geralt would have liked for them to reach the stairs, Jaskier pausing here and there to chat with patrons of the tavern. However, each time Geralt grew impatient and discretely touched his back or shoulder or brushed their hands together, Jaskier would politely excuse himself and they would continue on their way. But they finally reached the stairs and Geralt let out a breath, hand going to rest on the small of Jaskier's back like he was keeping him from changing his mind and rejoining the crowd.

“Are you growing impatient, dear witcher?” Jaskier teased, voice quiet so that only Geralt could hear it above the din. “Eager to get me alone?”

Geralt grunted and practically shoved Jaskier up the stairs, earning a laugh from him.

Their room was on the third floor and it was obvious that Jaskier spent good coin on it. There was a large bed piled with quilts across from the fireplace, a fire already crackling in its hearth. On the other side of the room, near the window and partitioned from the rest of the space with a privacy screen, was a large copper tub. The bath had already been prepared, steam rolling off the hot water and fogging the glass window panes.

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, to tell Jaskier that his coin was better saved than spent so frivolously, but the words died in his throat when petal-soft lips kissed him sweetly. The bags slid from his shoulder and landed on the floor with a solid thud, and his arms encircled Jaskier’s waist, pulling him flush to his chest. A pleased sigh left Jaskier when their tongues met, slid over one another, and he framed Geralt’s face with his strong hands. When they parted, Jaskier smiled and pressed a kiss to the tip of the Geralt's nose, laughing when it scrunched up almost instinctively.

“It’s my coin, so I’ll spend it how I like,” he said, patting Geralt’s chest with both hands. “Now, get undressed so we can take a bath.” Before he had even finished speaking, Jaskier was unbuckling the witcher’s leather armor.

He made no move to help him, standing still while skilled hands made quick work of the straps. Soon he was stripped down to the black linen shirt he wore beneath the leather. Geralt had to admit that he loved the way Jaskier undressed him so efficiently, the way he always had. Helping hands with his armor were appreciated, even if he had been reluctant at first. (“Oh, come off it, Geralt. Two pairs of hands are better than one. Besides I can reach the buckles better than you.”)

A quiet, disappointed huff left Geralt when Jaskier didn’t continue to undress him, when he just stooped to gather their bags and then nudged the leather armor to the side and out of the way with his foot. He watched him stride across the room and unceremoniously dump their belongings on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Jaskier pawed through one of the bags until he produced his grooming kit, filled with scented oils, a bar of goat’s milk soap, and a comb carved from bone. Their eyes met a moment later, and Jaskier straightened, putting one hand on his hip, the other still clutching the kit.

“Are you deaf, witcher?” he said, but there was unmistakable fondness in the cadence of his voice. “Get undressed. Chop, chop.”

Geralt deliberately dawdled a few moments more and reached down to pick up the swords that had been abandoned on the floor when he dropped the bags. As he rested them against the foot of the bed with their other things and then sat heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, he bit back a smirk at the dramatic sigh Jaskier let out. While he removed his boots, his eyes followed Jaskier as he walked to the tub and set a veil of oil, the soap, and the comb on the stool nearby.

Only when Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet did Geralt stand, footsteps made silent by bare feet as he crossed the space. He stopped behind Jaskier, listened to the rustle of fabric as the seafoam colored jacket hit the floor, and his hands ghosted over perfect, slender hips. This close, he could see the goose flesh raise the fine hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck and Geralt made a low burring sound, wrapped strong arms around Jaskier’s middle and pressed his face into the curve of his neck.

He smelled like the sweat from the earlier performance, like the warm, stuffy air of the tavern below, like the cloying perfume of the woman who had clung to him before. But when he breathed deep, Geralt could smell _Jaskier_ , warm like the flowers he was named for, like sunlight and ozone and the promise of spring rain. And faintly, only at the back of his throat, Geralt could smell the sweet, heady musk of his desire.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered roughly against his skin.

Jaskier leaned back against him with a quiet hum, even turned and pressed a kiss to his temple. The show of affection had Geralt’s chest squeezing and he tightened his arms around his waist. 

For as long as he had known him, Jaskier had been liberal with touch--patted his shoulder or nudged him with an elbow during conversation, leaned against him when they sat together on cold nights by the campfire, draped an arm around his shoulders when he retold one of their adventures to a group in some backwater tavern; but since the night in the woods, the touches had changed--a hand would linger for longer than necessary on his arm when Jaskier left to get them beers from the bar, or fingers would ghost over Geralt’s knuckles when they walked close, a palm would slid down his thigh to rest on his knee under the table when they shared a bench at a tavern (not that they had come across many in the last week). 

Geralt certainly couldn’t say he minded, but what was alarming was that he found himself craving the affection and even returning it. Witchers weren't built for wanting, they were efficient killers, and anyone who decided they wanted to be with one had to be short a few marbles.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice broke him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head a bit.

“Hmm?”

Jaskier easily turned in his arms, rested his hands on Geralt’s broad chest and fiddled with the medallion resting there. “Get undressed and get in the bath,” he said, pushing him away with that small, mischievous smile of his.

Geralt let his arms drop and he watched Jaskier pull his shirt from his trousers and then off completely; watched as he dripped a little bit of the oil into the bath water, the scent of lavender and chamomile wafting toward him; watched as he bent to remove his boots; watched as his trousers slid from his hips and pooled around his ankles.

After that show, Geralt wasted no time undressing, and his clothes joined Jaskier’s on the floor. When Jaskier turned to look at him, his piercing blue eyes trailed slowly along his body, and Geralt saw the light flush of color that dusted his cheeks and turned the tips of his ears pink. And when Jaskier took half a step closer, he could smell the perfume of his arousal. Despite that, however, Jaskier just motioned for him to get in the tub, an eyebrow raised expectantly. 

Without complaint, Geralt stepped past Jaskier--though, not without brushing a hand over his hip--and slowly sank into the hot, lightly scented water. In spite of himself, he sighed contentedly and tipped his head back against the rim of the tub. Behind him, he heard the stool scrape against the wood floor and a second later, Jaskier’s clever fingers were untying the leather thong that kept his hair back from his face. And then the gentle tug of the comb working the snarls out drew a hum from Geralt.

The two sat in a comfortable silence as Jaskier combed his hair, and Geralt thought about how this had become a routine for them--Jaskier sitting on a stool behind him, working out the tangles and then washing his hair until it was shiny and white, rather than tinged grey with dirt and old blood. Geralt wasn’t sure when it happened, but at some point along the way, it had become a great comfort to him, something he looked forward to when they had the extra coin to spend at inns.

A soft touch to his shoulder drew Geralt from his thoughts and then he felt Jaskier’s lips brush against the shell of his ear. “Lean forward a bit,” he murmured, and Geralt did.

Before stepping into the bath, he had noticed two small buckets filled with extra water; Jaskier used half of one to wet Geralt’s hair and the hot water spilled over his shoulders and down his face. It felt nice, soothed muscles that always seemed to ache, and Geralt gave a quiet hum and just sat with his head bowed forward, wet hair dripping around his face. He stayed like that when he heard Jaskier lather the goat’s milk soap in the water behind him, and he especially stayed like that when he felt Jaskier begin to wash his back.

He smoothed his palms over Geralt's skin, lingered on old scars and new ones alike, and Geralt sighed, a small shiver rolling through him. And then strong fingers were digging into his hair, scrubbing away the dirt and grime and blood. The sensation drew a satisfied moan from Geralt, especially when Jaskier scratched his dull nails gently over his scalp, and he leaned his head back into the touch.

A quiet chuckle sounded beside his ear just before Geralt felt a pair of soft lips against the stubble of his jaw--it was quite long now, nearly long enough to rightfully be considered a beard.

"Who would have guessed that such a mighty witcher could be so pliant under a humble bard's touch," Jaskier mused hushedly.

Then he pulled away and there was the sound of shuffling behind Geralt, a murmured warning of, "Keep your eyes closed." And then Jaskier was rinsing the soap from his hair, water once again dripping down his face and over his shoulders. But Geralt didn't mind. Not when Jaskier set the bucket down and moved so that he could gently wipe the droplets from his eyelashes and murmur an apology, a smile in his words.

Only when the hands pulled away from his face, did Geralt open his eyes. He watched as Jaskier stepped into the tub and sank down in front of him, watched as he glanced over his shoulder with his too-blue eyes and a charming smile.

"Wash my back?" Jaskier asked, holding up the milk and honey scented soap. And really, when was the last time Geralt had said 'no' to his bard?

He accepted the soap, but rather than lather his hands, he leaned forward and buried his face in the crook of Jaskier's neck. It wasn't as if they hadn't touched one another since the night in the woods. They shared a bed roll (though they had before as well, on particularly cold nights). They kissed quite a lot, often in passing--Jaskier would press a kiss to the corner of his mouth after breakfast, or Geralt would catch his lips lazily as they woke. Though, equally as often it was the sort that left them both panting and hard and wanting for more (once in front of a milkmaid when they thought they were alone in a barn; she had looked horrified and disgusted that a witcher would _defile_ a gentleman such as Jaskier). Hell, Jaskier had even pulled him off the road and into the trees to blow him a time or two.

But this, sharing a bath with Jaskier in an expensive room, at an expensive inn, was too good to be true, and Geralt _craved_ it, soaked it up for as long as Jaskier would let him. So he stayed like that, breathing him in and listening to his steady heartbeat for several moments. Jaskier didn't seem to mind; he leaned back into him and hummed a quiet tune while he waited.

"My dear witcher, if we don't wrap this up soon, we'll prune and the water will go cold," Jaskier finally murmured when seconds slipped into minutes, and Geralt groaned in protest but pulled back, leaving a kiss as he did.

Lathering his hands, he leaned over the edge of the tub to put the soap on the stool and then finally got to work. It was satisfying to wash away the dirt from their travels, to leave Jaskier clean and soft and relaxed. Jaskier hummed quietly as large, rough palms smoothed over his skin, fingers lingering on the few scars he had picked up on their adventures, and it made the corners of Geralt's mouth turn up in a small smile.

He took a moment to lean over the edge of the tub and reached for the bucket that was still full. Much like Jaskier had done, he used it to wet his bard's hair, watching the way the rivulets carved paths across his soapy back. And the sound he made when Geralt finally began to scrub at his scalp, a low burring groan from the back of his throat, made Geralt's cock stir with interest. But before long, it was time to rinse him and Jaskier let out a disappointed sigh.

"Have I ever told you how good with your hands you are?" he asked, flashing a cheeky smile over his shoulder.

"Every chance you get," Geralt answered with a snort and a fond roll of his eyes.

"Yes, well. It's not my fault all your witcher training has graced you with the capability to--"

"Jaskier," he huffed in warning--a warning that was met with a peal of musical laughter as Jaskier leaned back against his chest and tipped his head to grin up at him.

Jaskier's face eased into a soft smile and he lifted his hand to trace Geralt's jaw with the pads of his fingers. And honestly, Geralt couldn't remember the last person who had looked at him so tenderly. It made his chest squeeze, not for the first time tonight.

"Let's finish our bath and then I'll give you a massage," Jaskier said, and sat up. "Your back is one solid knot, it's no wonder you're always sore. It's because we sleep on the hard ground, you know. It wouldn't kill you if we rented a room more often. Most towns in this part of the Continent are close enough that we could probably rent a room every night!"

While they finished bathing, Jaskier rambled, and Geralt let him, listening to the sound of his voice more than the words he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: Wow, watching Jaskier is making me feel things. Must be the alcohol.
> 
> Geralt: It's definitely not because I have feelings for him. That can't possibly be the answer.
> 
> He's so dumb.
> 
> Also, Jaskier is basically his sugar daddy. I don't make the rules.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, second chapter and all that good smut. 
> 
> Just a warning that there's a small portion where Geralt has a bit of a sensory overload moment. Jaskier is very patient with him, though. 
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated! Enjoy!

A soft grunt left Geralt, slightly pained but certainly not a complaint. He was lying on his stomach on the soft bed, face pressed into one of the down pillows as Jaskier sat straddling the backs of his thighs and his skilled fingers dug into a particularly stubborn knot between his shoulder blades. It gave a twinge that made him wince before it released, and Geralt let out a relieved sigh that bordered on a quiet moan. And then Jaskier’s hands moved lower, the heels of his palms massaging away the tension in firm, sweeping arcs until Geralt felt pliant under his touch.

Jaskier chuckled quietly and his hands traveled even lower, over the swell of his ass, and truthfully it was more of a grope than a massage. “You really have got such a lovely bottom,” he said, and Geralt huffed an amused sound into the pillowcase.

He felt the way Jaskier's weight shifted and then those strong musician’s hands were no longer on him. There was the sound of a cork being pulled from the neck of a bottle and Jaskier’s hands returned a moment later, freshly oiled and slick.

Thumbs dug into his lower back, going after a knot, and Geralt groaned when it released. Gods, Jaskier was gifted, downright _blessed_ with those hands. Geralt tried not to think too hard or long about how he had become so skilled at giving massages, how he learned the muscle groups and just where to press to turn a person to jelly. Instead he focused on the limp, relaxed feeling in his limbs when Jaskier climbed off of him and kneeled beside him instead, the mattress dipping under his knees.

“Spread your legs a bit for me,” Jaskier said in a hushed voice, tapping the back of his thigh pointedly, and Geralt did as he was told without much thought. 

The massage continued down his legs to his feet and then back up, and by the time Jaskier was groping at his ass again, Geralt felt loose and content. Fingers teased between his cheeks before they were grabbed and spread. He was vaguely aware of how vulnerable he was like this, how exposed, but he was more aware of the way Jaskier’s breathing had become too controlled, the way his heart was beating faster; he could smell his arousal on the back of his tongue, sweet and tempting. 

“Alright?” Jaskier asked, voice taking on a husky edge that sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine.

He hummed an affirmative, felt an affectionate kiss between his shoulder blades, and then Jaskier’s hands disappeared momentarily only to reappear, slicked with oil and just resting on the back of his thigh. 

“Spread your legs a bit more.” 

And Geralt was more than happy to comply, arranging himself so that Jaskier could easily kneel between his legs, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose when his cock dragged against the quilt; at some point during the massage, it had filled in without him realizing, but now he was acutely aware of the way it was pinned between his belly and the mattress.

As soon as he was settled, Jaskier spread his cheeks and Geralt bit back a groan when the pad of his thumb caught at the rim of his hole. His body twitched though, betraying him, and he felt the pressure again, more insistent now.

“You’re sure this is alright?” Jaskier asked, and Geralt felt the way he shifted on his knees, unable to sit still for more than a moment, heard his breath stutter.

“Jaskier,” he grumbled into the pillow, but then he lifted his head enough to look over his shoulder, eyes darkened with desire. He watched the way Jaskier’s Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed and the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and a wanton rumble left his throat. 

“Right, yeah. I was just double checking,” Jaskier croaked, though a small grin graced his pretty face.

One hand came to rest against the curve of his spine, and Geralt’s head fell back to the pillow as Jaskier circled his rim with a finger and then began to press it slowly into him. He bit back a groan and did his best not to squirm at the initial discomfort. As it moved deeper, pleasure crept in and Geralt’s eyes fluttered closed. He had never appreciated just how long Jaskier’s fingers were until now, but with one pressed inside him to the third knuckle, it was hard not to positively bask in the realization.

“Fuck…” came an appreciative mutter from behind him. Jaskier gave a hum that sounded almost reverant as he began to fuck Geralt slowly with that one long finger, and Geralt’s ears suddenly felt hot. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had made a noise like that because of him. 

“You’re going to look so pretty stuffed full with my cock.” A pause. “I mean, if that’s alright with you. I won’t fuck you if you don’t want me to, of course. It’s just that I’ve imaginied it so many times, and fuck, Geralt, you always look so pretty in my head…” He trailed off as he twisted his hand palm down, thumb pressed against Geralt’s perineum, and he curled his finger searchingly.

When it met its mark, a shot of pleasure went up his spine and Geralt couldn’t keep from moaning. He lifted himself onto his knees enough that he could rut back on the single digit.

“Jaskier, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t fuck me,” he managed hoarsly. He paused to moan again, into the pillow this time, and when he had his wits about him, Geralt lifted his head to look over his shoulder with a heated expression. “More.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier gasped out, and Geralt couldn’t help the small coil of pride in his chest at the fact that he had stollen the poet’s words.

At least for now.

His head fell to the pillow and the bed shifted. A moment later, oil dripped around Jaskier’s finger and down his balls. The cold made him hiss through his teeth, but there wasn’t time to complain even if he wanted to because the stretch at his rim suddenly became more intense in the best possible way. Geralt bit his lip as the fingers began to move, thumb rubbing just so against his taint as they did.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier cooed dreamily. “I must be the luckiest man in the world right now, to have you in my bed, spread out like this. What a sight you are. And your sounds!” He curled his fingers against Geralt’s prostate to make him moan, as if he was proving his point. “Gods, Geralt, your sounds are enough to make a man weep. I could write ballads about the sounds you make alone, nevermind the way your perfect, greedy ass is taking my fingers.” As he spoke, Jaskier added a third finger and Geralt dragged in a stuttering breath only to let it out as a moan.

“Just hurry up, Jaskier,” he ground out, rocking his hips back. The movement caused his cock to rub against the quilt and he shuddered--the friction was somehow too much and not enough at the same time.

“Do you think I could make you come just like this? I’m willing to bet that your witcher stamina extends to the bedroom.” Jaskier’s voice took on a mischievous edge and he curled his fingers against Geralt’s prostate, dragging a moan out of him. “How many orgasms do you suppose you’re capable of?”

Geralt growled, heard the way it made Jaskier’s heart skip and the way he swallowed. “No, right, another time,” he said, and Geralt hummed. “I’ll just get on with fucking you, shall I?” Geralt hummed again.

Without further talking or hesitation, Jaskier began to pump his fingers--only pausing to spread or scissor them--until Geralt’s moans came more freely. And if his thighs began to tremble and his cock gave a needy twitch with every pass and press over his prostate, well, who could blame him?

“Fuck, I’m ready,” Geralt gasped, growing impatient. “Fuck me.”

He wasn’t prepared for the uncomfortable empty feeling when Jaskier suddenly withdrew his fingers, and his hips bucked involuntarily. It had been a long time since Geralt had allowed anyone to take him and it was almost embarrassing how much his body craved it, how much _he_ craved it. 

There wasn’t time to dwell on the shame, however, not when Jaskier was leaned over him, cock resting hot and heavy against the cleft of his ass as he whispered two little words into his ear:

“Roll over.”

The back of Geralt’s neck suddenly felt hot, but before he could so much as utter a syllable, Jaskier spoke again. 

“Please, Geralt?” He nipped the shell of Geralt’s ear when he paused. “I want to see your face.” Soft lips feathered across his shoulder now, dropping kisses against every scar they found.

On his back, Jaskier would be able to tell what a wreck he was already, the way his pupils were doubtlessly blown wide, eclipsing gold, the way sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and chest, the way his cock was already dribbling precome. But that wasn’t a bad thing, Geralt reminded himself, not in this situation, not with Jaskier.

Slowly, he nudged Jaskier off of him and rolled over, legs spread. He felt vulnerable like this, exposed and seen, but Geralt decided the expression on Jaskier’s face was worth it. His pretty blue eyes traveled a meandering path down Geralt’s body, halting when they reached his cock. And didn’t he look like a starving man presented with a feast, the way his lips parted and his eyes grew hungry. It was enough to make even a witcher squirm against the mattress. 

And then Jaskier clasped his hands together and moved his gaze toward the ceiling. “Melitele above, thank you for blessing me with this gorgeous man whom I am about to ravish,” he said in a parody of prayer, and Geralt couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from his chest, loud and genuine and enough to to bring a startled grin to Jaskier’s face. 

“Oh, get on with it, you heathen,” he huffed, spreading his legs wider--an invitation. 

“With pleasure,” Jaskier said, face still split in a grin even as he leaned down for a quick, dirty kiss that left Geralt wanting more, wanting everything and anything Jaskier might give him. 

When they parted and he heard the sound of a cork being pulled from the neck of a bottle, a shudder of anticipation went through Geralt. He watched the way Jaskier sat back on his heels and took himself in hand, the way he spread the oil in slow, almost lazy strokes; he listened to the pleased sounds he drew from himself. And Geralt wanted to impatiently demand he hurry up, but all he could do was stare, was take in how unfairly _beautiful_ Jaskier was, his own lips parting as his eyes darted between watching the way Jaskier's hand moved and the look of bliss on his face.

Geralt wasn't sure how long he lay there and just watched--it couldn't have been more than a few seconds--but when Jaskier finally let go of his cock and wiped his hand on the bedspread, he swallowed and looked up to meet the blue eyes that were watching him so fondly that it made his chest ache. Instead of focusing on the feeling (and more importantly, what it meant), he reached out and pulled Jaskier down by the nape of his neck. He came willingly and when their lips met, Geralt held on to him like he was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

"You're beautiful like this, Geralt," Jaskier whispered against his mouth. And when he pulled back, his expression was soft around the edges in a way that made Geralt's gut twist with emotions he couldn't even begin to parse right then.

So instead of trying, he let out a growl and nipped Jaskier's bottom lip. "Are you going to talk all night, or are you doing to fuck me?"

He felt the shudder that rolled through Jaskier, and then one of his thighs was being shoved back and Geralt reminded himself to relax. The bed shifted and then Jaskier was leaned over him and gripping the base of his cock with his free hand, nudging the head experimentally against Geralt's hole and dragging what could only be described as a whimper from him. A bit more pressure and it slid past the tight ring of muscle with surprising ease (perhaps not so surprising considering how thoroughly Jaskier prepared him), pulling a gasp from them both.

"Alright?" came a quiet murmur against his cheek, and it was a moment before Geralt nodded, not trusting his voice.

And then--

_Oh._

And then Jaskier began to push deeper into him and Geralt tipped his head back against the pillows, mouth dropped open. It was all so much‐-the fingers that still dug into his thigh and kept it pressed to his chest, the hot breath that fanned over the side of his face, the sound of Jaskier's voice babbling words he couldn't focus on, _the scent of them_. Gods, the _scent_ of them. Their desire was so thick in the air that Geralt was certain even a human nose would be able to smell it. It was all so much even without Jaskier bottoming out, and Geralt trembled, clutched Jaskier's shoulders and dragged him down to bury his face against his throat.

Worry tainted the sweet, heady scent of lust and sat heavily on the back of his tongue, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak; he kept his face hidden against Jaskier’s skin and breathed. The hand on his thigh moved to pet along Geralt's side, over his ribs and bicep, into his tangled hair.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's voice broke through the buzz of overstimulation. "Are you alright? Talk to me. If you've changed your mind, we can stop." He made to pull out, his cock shifting, and Geralt groaned at the sensation.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snarled. Sharp teeth scraped over Jaskier's throat and fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "It's just… a lot. Need a minute."

With an understanding hum, Jaskier remained perfectly still, save for the way his long fingers massaged Geralt's scalp.

Seconds bled into minutes before Geralt rocked his hips, once, twice, and Jaskier met the third roll easily. They moved together like that, built up a steady rhythm, until Geralt met blue eyes with a heated look.

"Fuck me," he growled, pleased with the grin Jaskier gave him and the way his thrusts grew rougher.

Strong hands wrapped around his wrists, squeezed them almost reassuringly, and then Geralt blinked when he found them pinned above his head. It would be easy enough to break out of the grip, but he didn't want to. In fact, being dominated by Jaskier like this sent a jolt of pleasure through him and he tipped his head back and closed his eyes tightly, a heady groan leaving his throat. And he just let himself focus on the sensations that wracked his body--the way Jaskier's cock pumped in and out of him as he settled into the rough pace; the way his fingers bit into his wrists hard enough to bruise even Geralt; the way his hot breath panted against his cheek just before he dragged his soft lips along the stubble of his jaw. 

When he felt a demanding nip at his chin, Geralt opened his eyes just a crack and found Jaskier watching him. His expression was easy to read, and it made Geralt swallow a soft, choked out sound. Jaskier’s blue eyes were filled with unabashed desire and adoration. It made his stomach flip as if he were falling from a great height, and he turned his head to hide his face against his arm, panting into his own skin. 

"Nng-- _Fuck!_ " Geralt moaned against his bicep, back arching off the bed when Jaskier's cock stroked inside him just so. It felt like he could go mad from this, like he could absolutely lose his mind and he wouldn't even regret it. How was it that Jaskier seemed to pull him apart so completely and with such ease?

"You’re doing so well, Geralt.” Jaskier whispered the praise against his jaw, and warm pleasure coiled under Geralt’s ribs at his words. “Keep your hands there. Be good for me.” His voice was hardly more than a gentle murmur against his skin, but somehow it still held a command that seared through Geralt and made him nod uselessly.

When Jaskier let go of him, Geralt crossed his wrists above his head and gripped the headboard tightly. Those strong, beautiful musician’s hands made a lazy path down his body, fingers skimming over his throat, tracing his collarbones, and they paused for a moment on his chest to tease over his nipples. All the while, Jaskier continued to fuck him with quick, rough thrusts, and it made Geralt tremble, made his abs clench and his cock jump where it leaked against his belly. And gods help him, the whine he let out bordered a dry sob when Jaskier’s hips suddenly rolled to a stop, cock still buried to the hilt. 

“Jas-- Jaskier, please. Fuck! Fuck, please!” Geralt begged, and had he not been out of his mind with need, he might have been embarrassed by the wrecked desperation in his voice.

Jaskier just shushed him gently as he sat back on his heels with his knees akimbo, pulling Geralt along so that he was still impaled on his cock, thighs spread wide around his hips. 

It took everything he had not to reach out and grab Jaskier, flip them over, to just ride him and take what he needed; but he wanted to be good for Jaskier just this once, wanted to do as he was told. So he gripped the headboard until his knuckles turned bone-white and wood creaked quietly, eyes shut tight again and face still pressed against his arm.

The low moan Jaskier let out, and the way he gripped his hips and began to move again, _slowly_ , drew a ragged sound from Geralt. He tried to meet the achingly slow thrusts, but with Jaskier's thighs wedged under his, spreading his legs wide, he couldn't do more than lie there and pant.

"Geralt, fuck… You haven't got any right being this beautiful. Gods, I knew you'd look amazing stuffed with my cock." Jaskier sounded as wrecked as Geralt felt.

He wasn’t sure how long it went on like that, the slow, gentle fucking, his bard babbling until he was out of words and the only sound was their heavy breathing and the slap of their skin. Precome was drooling onto his belly with each well placed thrust that stroked over his prostate, and Geralt was gripping the headboard hard enough that there was the distinct possibility that the wood might splinter in his hands. Gods, he was so close, balls pulled up tight--all he needed was for Jaskier to touch him, to fuck him just a bit harder. But he just kept his thrusts slow and gentle, kept Geralt right on the edge of release.

"Jaskier, please!" he gasped, and he felt his eyes prickly with actual tears. (He would never live it down if Jaskier fucked him so good he cried, because witchers did _not_ cry.) 

"What do you need, Geralt?" Jaskier panted, shifting to lean over him and press kisses to the side of his face, the corner of his mouth, his neck. 

The change of angle drove Jaskier deeper with each thrust and Geralt tossed his head back and let out a choked off cry. "Need to come! Please!" he begged brokenly. 

"Oh, fuck--" Jaskier gasped. His hips faltered slightly in their pace and Geralt knew he was close too, could feel it in the way his body suddenly tensed and his thighs trembled. He sat back on his heels again. "Geralt, look at me."

He did. He saw the way Jaskier was flushed down to his chest with arousal, the way his damp hair was curling a bit, sticking to his forehead; saw the sheen of sweat on his skin. It all made Geralt moan, and he closed his eyes again for just a moment to compose himself. When he opened them, Jaskier looked like he wanted to say something, lips parted and brows drawn together in the way they did when he was concentrating on words. But the only sound that came from him was a moan and Geralt couldn't concentrate on more than the orgasm that was threatening to overtake him at any moment.

The pace didn't speed up despite the hard grip Jaskier had on his hips. He just continued to fuck Geralt slow and deep, his breath ragged as his own release drew nearer. And then his hand suddenly wrapped around around his cock (the first time it had been touched all night, Geralt realized). It only took two quick pumps, and Geralt might have been embarrassed had he not been fucked within an inch of his life. His hips bucked as he spilled over his stomach and Jaskier's hand, vision going white, and he heard the way Jaskier moaned his name, felt his pace stutter. 

Geralt opened his eyes--unsure when he had closed them--in time to watch his face as his orgasm washed over him. His mouth was dropped open around a moan of his own and then his throat was bared as his head tipped back. Jaskier's hand had moved away from his cock to brace against Geralt’s sternum, smearing his release into his skin, matting his chest hair a bit, but Geralt didn't care. Not when he could feel the way Jaskier's cock pulsed inside him as he came, and not when he practically collapsed on top of him a moment later. His thighs were still wedged under Geralt's and the position made it easy for him to stay seated inside even as he lay there with his head pillowed on Geralt's heaving chest.

"Melitele's tits," Jaskier breathed with a breathless laugh and Geralt hummed in agreement, limp and boneless under him. He let go of the headboard, fingers cramping a bit as he flexed them a couple times, and then he let his arms go lax on the pillow above his head.

Geralt didn't think he had ever been so thoroughly fucked in his life--there was clearly truth to all the rumors he had heard of Jaskier's prowess in bed. He had certainly managed to satiate a witcher which was no small feat. Honestly, Geralt couldn’t help feeling somewhat awed, and he moved a hand to run his fingers through Jaskier’s mussed hair as their heartbeats calmed and their breathing returned to normal, smiling when Jaskier began to hum a quiet tune and his long fingers doodled over his chest. 

Eventually, Jaskier shifted his weight and sat up, hands pressed to Geralt’s ribs. And even though the fire was burning low by now, he could see that soft look in his blue eyes that made his chest flutter. He opened his mouth to say something--he didn’t know what, just _something_ \--but a soft huff left his lips instead when Jaskier’s softened cock slipped out of him and he felt suddenly empty. He just lay there while Jaskier rearranged himself, eyes closed as he basked in the afterglow. Finally his bard settled beside him, plastered against his side with one arm thrown over Geralt’s waist. 

“You were so good, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured after a few moments of drowsy silence, and he pressed a kiss to a scar on Geralt’s shoulder.

A pleased warmth spread through Geralt all the way to his toes and he turned his head to bury his nose in Jaskier’s hair, breathing in the scent of the soap and his sweat and their sex. He felt content, happy, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that, so he just enjoyed it for now. 

“The record is six, by the way,” Geralt said a few minutes later. When Jaskier lifted his head from his shoulder to give him a confused look, he added, “Orgasms.”

Jaskier groaned and buried his face against Geralt’s neck. “You’re trying to kill me, witcher,” he accused, nipping at Geralt’s skin and making him laugh. “I suppose you and I will just have to break that record, won’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be writing more for this series. The goal is for Geralt to realized that he actually, you know, _loves_ Jaskier. Is this set within the canon of anything? No clue. I'm just here to write and have a good time.


End file.
